Thirsty Thursday: “Come back! Joe Jonas is here!”

“I’m not drinking tonight,” says Billy. “Neither am I,” replies Dora as she drools over a new @7soulsdeep declaration of love graffed on a green wall near Liberty’s (if you know Soho, you know) : ‘It’s you, I know this because when you saw my rain you did not try to show me the sun, instead you started to love me drop by drop.’ It’s enough to make you wet, cry, vomit, scream, or all of the above. Yes, a Thirsty Thursday comes around faster than green grass through a goose and this week we were met with revving supercars, Camp Rock vibes and mouths as dry as the Sahara, all within a mere 15-minute stroll from Plaster HQ. What more could a girl ask for?

Our first port of call was, of course, lubrication so we snuck a couple of leftover Coronas from the Plaster fridge (sshh, don’t tell our boss) and headed to our first stop; Soldier Boyfriend’s exhibition at Kearsey and Gold. Now let me tell you, we’ve never seen so many carbon-copy Soho-centric skater boys on Cork Street. Mind, we’ve rarely seen more than ten people under the age of 50 on Cork Street at any given time. Every single attendee was a locked and loaded sk8r boi ready to fuck and dump you at the drop of a hat. Dora was in heaven, though, she had her eyes on some other candy… but a lady ought never tell.

A meagre two drinks tokens were awarded on entry (now that’s not going to do the trick is it?). Billy accepted the tokens with about as much grace and decorum as a reversing dump truck without any tyres, and headed inside, holding back the complaining Jewish grandmother lurking within. We were joined by the ever glamorous fashion writer Olivia Allen sporting the fuckiest fuck off glasses one did ever see (I think Vogue has gotten to her), editor of The Toe Rag Sophie Barshall and handy man extraordinaire Master (Noah) Bates. The vibe was giving ‘day drinking’. After flapping around the exhibition in sunglasses for a while we headed around the corner to Sprüth Magers.

We arrived to find Lore Alender, Fabian Strobel Lall’s pooch, and the mildly stressed out PR queen Jennifer Kibazo dealing with the repercussions of not being able to source emergency vegan dog food. We were there for ‘Songs before Sunrise’, a group exhibition featuring artists including Oliver Bak, Eugène Carrière and Anne Imhof. Unfortunately, no glasses of wine (which were noticeably more delicious than your average PV bev, thank you Sprüth) were allowed inside the exhibition so the crowd congregated around the steps leading to the gallery. After an alarming amount of cigarettes and regularly refilled wine, we eventually made it inside. The show was good, but an unsung  star was the Titanic meets 1920s Paris elevator. As Billy stumbled down the stairs that wrapped around the wrought iron cage of dreams, he pictured himself as Jack, and Dora as Rose, diving under the ice cold Atlantic water flooding the Titanic searching for a giant key chain. On a serious note, the weathered blue Oliver Bak painting hung seamlessly on the gallery’s main facade window, and Anne Imhof’s relief sculpture upstairs stole the show.

As the clock approached midnight (8 pm) we peeled ourselves away from the bustling crowd of Sprüth Magers and ran across the road to catch the end of the Rose Wylie opening at David Zwirner. Billy’s phone pinged, “Come back! Joe Jonas is here!”. At first we thought it was a joke but mid vox-pop, Billy saw a solitary man with final-boss-short-king-vibes across the road. Could it be him?… Is it him?… IT’S HIM! Not Joe Jonas at the epicentre of the London art scene! Dora, like a gazelle, sprung over to accost him. With the help of some craft beer, courtesy of David Zwirney, Dora blurts out “HI, I WORK FOR PLASTER MAGAZINE I JUST WONDERED IF YOU’D BE UP FOR DOING AN INTERVIEW WITH US ABOUT THE SHOW…” A stunned JoBro looks up, his face washed with a perfect concoction of astonishment and grave concern, and humbly explained that he “isn’t doing press interviews this evening.” Fair enough. The poor guy had just come along to soak up some culture.

Another gallery goer points to the back of a salmon pink shirt “he’s famous too, a BBC actor or something”. Billy went to investigate and a dashing James Norton spun on his heels. In a panic (as the last time he saw James was in ‘A Little Life’ at the Harold Pinter Theatre, full frontal, willy swinging), Unsurprisingly, James joined Joe in ‘politely declining’ with the elegance of Princess Diana bashfully batting off the paparazzi. The celebrity safari was completed by Saltburn actor Archie Madekwe. In a drunken haze we thought we were at the Met Gala. It seems the celebs have a penchant for Ms Wylie – don’t we all.

As the crowd died down, the sun set, and we lost a couple of soldiers (so long Barsh and Liv), we prepared for a lovely early night… until we were alerted about the Soldier Boyfriend afterparty. Fuck it, go on then. Whilst killing the hour between the gallery closing and the after party beginning, some serious art world goss was spilled over diet cokes, garlic bread cheese dippers and M&S cocktail cans, but, you know what they say; whatever happens in the downstairs seating area of the Bond Street station Mcdonalds STAYS in the downstairs seating area of the Bond Street station Mcdonalds. All I can say is the autocannibalism of someone’s toes was discussed.

We stormed the lobby of the 22 Hotel and began reeling off names to try and get our party of 6 (yes we have groupies now) into the Soldier Boyfriend bash. Alas, none of them worked. Suddenly it was all systems go. Lore entered PR action mode, whilst Billy and Dora frantically messaged Plaster co-founder Finn Constantine and Plaster Editor Harriet Lloyd-Smith, hoping to pull some strings. The party PR manager eventually emerged from behind the red curtain, phone to ear: “Yes, they all look lovely, ok great, ok, you can all come in. Add them to the list”. The bouncer unclipped the velvet rope and we piled in. Let me tell you, that feeling never gets old.

Inside was…. empty. We realised why as we got to the bar. There’s no tab. “What do you mean we have to pay!?”. I thought this was a  Cork Street gallery? The party was a who’s who of who from West London can afford a £24 glass of wine. A cock swinging, bum wiggling potpourri of dealers, collectors, artists and the West London Massive.  Perhaps there are some lessons to be learnt here, the recipe for a good party is a loose entry policy and free bar.

As the party slowly filled, our pockets slowly emptied and fearing for the safety of our bank accounts, we decided to call it quits at 11:30 pm. As the troupes split and we decided to ‘go our own ways’ (cue Vanessa Hudgens), we contemplated the unexpected surge of madcap fun filling the lamp lit streets of Mayfair. Maybe the London art scene really is having a resurgence. Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit, it turned out to be a Thirsty Thursday after all. See you all next week. Billy P and Dora DB signing off (and going for a hangover IV drip). xxx